Black Wings Against a White Sky
They tried to clip our wings before we even learned to fly. They slammed the doors of their fancy white airports in our faces, sneered at the audacity of Black folks daring to touch the sky. But they underestimated the fire in our bellies, the burning desire to break free from their earthbound chains.
In the dusty soil of Robbins, Illinois, a beacon of defiance took root in 1933. The Robbins Airport wasn't just a patch of leveled ground; it was a middle finger to segregation, a testament to the unwavering spirit of Black aviators who refused to be grounded by prejudice.
Imagine it: Black hands, calloused and determined, clearing land, hammering nails, fueled by a dream that soared higher than any Jim Crow sign. John C. Robinson, the visionary, the man who'd later breathe life into Ethiopian Airlines and inspire the Tuskegee Airmen. Cornelius R. Coffey, the mechanical genius, a brother who could coax metal into the heavens. These weren't just names; they were warriors in flight caps, battling a world that told them they didn't belong in the air.
They built their own damn airport. They carved out their own space in a world that tried to deny them any. The Challenger Air Pilots' Association, a band of brothers and sisters with wings in their hearts, made Robbins a sanctuary. It was the ONLY accredited Black-owned airport in this racist nation, a place where Black folks could learn to pilot, to wrench, to OWN the skies.
Think about the sheer audacity. In a time when the very notion of Black equality was a dangerous fantasy to the white power structure, these individuals weren't just dreaming; they were building. Janet Harmon-Bragg, a nurse with a pilot's soul, put her own money down, bought a plane for the cause. These weren't just hobbyists; they were pioneers forging a path where none existed.
Robbins wasn't just about planes taking off; it was about dreams taking flight. It was a symbol of self-reliance, a defiant roar against the suffocating silence of segregation. It was OURS.
But the white world, even when it wasn't directly attacking, cast a long, dark shadow. Whispers of hostility from neighboring white communities lingered in the air. Tales of Black pilots forced down miles from Robbins facing harassment and arrest for the crime of landing while Black. The air itself felt thick with their resentment.
And then, nature, in its cruel indifference, delivered a blow. In May 1933, a brutal windstorm ripped through Robbins, tearing apart the hangar, mangling the planes. The dream, so fiercely fought for, lay in ruins.
Did the feds shut them down directly? Maybe not with a formal decree. But the constant pressure, the systemic denial of resources, the hostile environment – these were all weapons in their arsenal. And when the storm hit, where was the support? Where was the outstretched hand to help rebuild? Crickets.
They might have thought they grounded us for good. They were wrong. The spirit of Robbins didn't die in that storm. Robinson, Coffey, and the others, unbent and unbroken, picked up the pieces and moved their fight to Harlem Airport (now Oak Lawn). The Coffey School of Aeronautics rose from the ashes, continuing the mission, eventually becoming a crucial training ground for the legendary Tuskegee Airmen.
Robbins might be a footnote in some dusty history books, but it's a screaming headline in the story of Black resilience. It's a reminder that even when the world tries to clip your wings, the fire within can still take you to the heavens. They couldn't kill the dream. They only forced it to find a new runway. And damn if we didn't soar.
